Silent Hill
by Charli Cameron
Summary: Sam searches for his dead brother in a town called Silent Hill. Sequel to Resident Evil


_Over._

_Everything is._

Sam is on his knees howling at the failing light of day. It is a cry of sorrow, of deep pain. It is the cry of loss and this is a man who has lost everything. Dean's body lies in the dirt, and the skinny, curious chickens approach cautiously to peck at the pool of blackened blood that is soaking into the ground. He staggers to his feet. His arm is still broken and he can't tell if the wound in his thigh is still bleeding or not, but the pain from both is fading to a dull agony.

He falls heavily against his brother's corpse. "I'm so sorry," he whispers "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you this time.".

He pats Dean's pockets until he finds the one that contains the car keys. He avoids looking into his brother's half missing face. He pulls the keys out and looks at them sadly. Dean's beloved Impala. More loved than any woman in the world.

He grabs his brother's legs and begins to drag him over to the car. Wherever he's headed, he's taking Dean with him. He thinks he should probably find a hospital. He releases the legs and they drop heavily to the ground and he pats his own pockets. He pulls out his mobile phone. He forgot this. How could he forget this. He flips it open. He is unsurprised to see that it is not picking up any signal. He punches in 911 anyway but it doesn't connect. He stuffs it back into his jeans and unlocks the car.

As he lifts Dean into the back seat he understands why they coined the term 'dead weight'. It is a struggle, especially for a man with a busted arm. He doesn't care. It is only the pain that is keeping him alive. He has no intention of leaving his brother behind, at least he can give him that much.

He slides into the drivers seat and inserts the key in the ignition. He turns the key a notch and the stereo comes on, picking up from where they last left off:

…_now they're gone_

_came the last night of…_

Sam switches it off quickly. It hurts too much. It's too much of his brother in this tiny little space. The engine catches and fires on his third try. He floors the accelerator and the back wheels kick up a cloud of dust and feathers as he makes good his escape. He hightails it back along the dirt track, heading for the main road. He hangs a left at the junction and tries to avoid his brother's dead half stare in the rear view mirror as he drives.

And he drives for what seems like hours.

He drives until he's no longer sure what he's running from. A sign flashes in the headlights, "73 County". He pulls the map from his back pocket. It's the only thing he has in his possession that's not covered in blood. He wrestles it across the steering wheel, trying to keep an eye on the road, his broken arm against the wheel and his good arm holding the map.

"73 Country" isn't showing. He keeps his eyes peeled for more signs.

"Welcome to Silent Hill"

Silent Hill isn't shown on the map either. He no longers cares. He's found a town. He's found life.

He can find help.

He drives slowly along the main road as buildings start to come into view. A post office. Closed. A church. Dark and silent. He winds the window down and smells the cool night air. There is a misty haze around the orange glow of the streetlights, but they are the only lights. He continues to drive at a snails pace. He passes a bank and then an apartment block. It scarcely concerns him that there are no lights on in the entire building.

As he crosses the next junction, passing something called Rosewater Park on his right, he sees on the left a sign, "Jacks Inn". This place, he reasons, has to be occupied. Or at least have a phone. His mobile has failed to pick up a signal since leaving the hell that was the abandoned farmhouse. He wonders if it is faulty. He could try Deans, but he really doesn't want to go rummaging through a dead mans pockets again.

He pulls into the car park. The lights are on and he hopes that someone is home. He steps from the vehicle and approaches the front door. And he catches sight of his reflection in the glass.

And it is a reflection he does not recognise.

His hair is wild and peppered with tiny shards of broken glass which catch the light. His face and chest are smeared with blood and dirt. He is filthy and his jeans are torn and stiff with his brother's blood and his own. He carries his right arm at a strange angle and all together there is a wild brightness in his eyes that he has seen before in the terrified eyes of deer, caught in the Impala's headlights.

He pushes the door open, as much to get away from his own fixed stare, as to gain entry. He wanders into the bar and is immediately reminded of stories he's heard about the Mary Celeste. He's heard all the stories about ghost ships, although it's not something the Winchesters tend to specialise in. The bar is brightly lit and deathly silent. Chairs and tables stand empty. Optics line up behind the bar, and above them a row of polished glasses, all that's missing is the barman to fill them.

He's too tired to call out, and too wary now of drawing unwanted attention to himself. He manoeuvres himself behind the bar where he finds a telephone. He puts the receiver to his ear, and then immediately drops it. There is a high-pitched whine coming down the line. The squeal of static. He taps the connector a few times and punches some numbers, but still the noise keeps coming.

He replaces the handset back on the cradle and turns back to the bar. He notices, near to the door where he entered, a wooden rack containing what looks to be tourist information. He walks over and picks up a small brochure that contains, among the adverts for local businesses, a small map of the town. One block over, highlighted on the map, is Brookhaven Hospital.

Sam is about to head back out of the door when suddenly the jukebox in the corner bursts into life.

…_sadness_

_and it was clear she couldn't go on…_

He is jerked rudely out of his reverie, and the music seems particularly loud after the oppressive silence of the town. He recognises Blue Oyster Cult, and the same tune that was playing in the car. Sam doesn't believe in coincidence. He doesn't believe in zombies, and he doesn't believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Despite everything he's seen, he's not the believer his brother was. He does believe that he will still find help at the hospital, and he exits the bar with the strains of "Don't Fear the Reaper" still playing inside.

The rear nearside passenger door to the Impala is open. He's sure as shit he didn't leave it open.

Dean is gone from the back seat.

He looks around wildly. In a seemingly deserted town, who comes out of nowhere to take a mutilated corpse? Although today he's starting to believe that anything is possible. He gets into the car and tries to start it. The engine whines a few times and then dies completely. He climbs out and kicks the tyre.

And then he hears it.

His brother's laugh.

That filthy chuckle of Deans. The one he knows so well. The one that tells him he's the butt of a joke, again. His eyes follow the sound to the entrance of a narrow alleyway between buildings, approximately two hundred yards from where he's standing. He watches as a figure darts between the houses and into the alley. "Dean." He says softly.

He races to the opening but the person he saw has disappeared into the darkness. The glare from the streetlights does not seem to penetrate along here. Sam runs back to the car and, with some difficulty, opens the damaged trunk. He rummages in a bag and pulls out a grey t-shirt. He's too agitated to be really cold but the night air is cool against his filthy skin. He pulls it on, tugging it down and not bothering to tuck it into his waistband. He reaches in again and pulls out two .45's. He stuffs one in the back of his jeans and keeps hold of the other as he comes up again with a torch. He slams the trunk shut with his elbow and returns to the alley, flicking on the torch and holding the gun out in front of him. He reasons that after all that has happened, and is happening, he should at least be a little cautious.

He half walks and half runs along the dark alleyway. There are high chain-link fences on either side, all shut, all secure. He dodges trash cans and precariously placed boxes, scanning ahead for any signs of life. The silence is eerie and almost overwhelming. All he can hear is the padding of his sneakers against the tarmac as he jogs along and his own ragged breath. There is nothing to indicate that anyone has been along here recently.

After a short time he emerges onto a sidewalk. He turns off the torch and stuffs it in his pocket; he still keeps a tight grip on the gun. Across the deserted street is the imposing Brookhaven hospital. He crosses the road and climbs the entrance steps. He pushes open the glass door and enters the empty waiting area.

He walks around the side of the unmanned reception desk and calls out "Hello? Can I get some help here?" he is not unsurprised when there are no answers. He opens a few doors and stares into equally empty treatment rooms. He is about to turn away when he remembers the gash in his thigh and his broken arm. He knows he can't do anything for his arm, but he can at least do something about his leg. He rummages in drawers until he comes up with a bandage and a suture kit; time to test his field medic skills.

Sam removes the gun from the back of his pants, unbuttons his jeans and lets them drop to the floor. He perches on a chair and threads the needle. The cut is deep, the meat of his leg muscle dark against the pale lips of the cut. He doesn't pull it apart to see how deep it is, he doesn't want to know. He squeezes the edges of the cut together and sucks his lips in between his teeth and chews on them as he pushes the needle under the skin.

His stitches are uneven but they do the job of closing the open wound. He counts ten large sutures as he snaps the thread. He places some dressing over the top and tapes it down. He was always good at this stuff. He pulls his jeans back up over his legs and picks up the firearms.

It's as he's exiting the room, heading back towards reception, that his ass starts ringing. He gropes in his pockets for his mobile, the strains of Nerf Herder's theme to Buffy the Vampire Slayer echoing loudly in the deserted hallways.

It's Dean's tune.

Sam thought it was funny when he set it up, now it's making the little hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He looks at the tiny screen. It's definitely Dean calling, and yet the signal strength indicator is still showing empty. He presses to answer, and holds it up to his ear.

"Sam?"

Dean sounds distant and far away. Of course he does, thinks Sam, he's dead. But he never could ignore his brother. "Dean? Is that you?"

"Course it's me Sammy. Where are you?"

"Where am I? Where the hell are you? You're supposed to be dead."

"Now you and I both know things aren't always what they seem. I need you to come get me. I'm at the Lakeview Hotel, Room 213."

The connection goes dead and Sam stares at the phone in his hand. He goes for the re-dial but there's no number listed. And there's still no signal.

He plays back the conversation in his head. Things aren't always what they seem. It's true that in the past his brother hasn't always been his brother. Doppelgangers, Skinwalkers, plain old possession, there are a hundred and one supernatural reasons that could ultimately support the truth of Dean Winchester still being alive.

And one that discounts it: the plain and simple fact that he blew off half his brother's head with a shotgun.

Back out in the main waiting room, a shuffling noise from the end of a dark corridor attracts his attention. He turns his head and sees the shadowy figure of a nurse. Dressed in white, hair pinned up underneath her hat, her back to him, moving along awkwardly. She staggers as if her arms and legs are disjointed, tottering heavily on stick-thin legs. Something is wrong with this picture Sam thinks.

He approaches her cautiously, and as he flicks on the torch to better light his way, she turns to face him.

She has no face. Smooth pale skin covers any features. He raises the gun in his hand, and as he does so she raises the long iron bar in hers. No sound, just the slight clickity-click of her heels against the tiled surface of the floor as she lifts the bar up over her head, ready to strike.

Sam fires four shots into the body and blood immediately appears, spreading across the dirty white uniform. She crumples and drops to the ground, the bar falling from her hand with a resounding clatter.

He walks up to the body and pokes it nervously with his foot. It's dead. "What the hell…?" he mutters under his breath but before he can finish his train of thought he hears a now familiar clicking coming from somewhere behind. He turns and sees two more of the creatures shambling in his direction.

They're moving slowly enough that Sam doesn't hang around to fight with them. Why waste bullets on something you can outrun?

He exits the building, coming back out onto the empty street. Walking down the steps he pulls the small town plan from his pocket and scans it for the Lakeview Hotel. It's shown as being just the other side of Rosewater Park. He ducks back into the alleyway, heading back the way he came.

Emerging on the other side he starts towards the main road leading out of town and towards the park. He pounds the street hard as he rushes along, eager to put an end to this mystery and wishing desperately that Dean were here with him. Or Dad. Or Jess. Or any other living soul. To be able to hear a sane voice in amongst the irrationality of the situation.

There is a flash behind his eyes as something explodes inside his mind. He stumbles and half-trips over his feet. He presses the cold metal of the gun to his forehead, screwing his eyes up tight against the sudden migraine pain.

…_blood…_

…_blood everywhere…_

And just like that, the vision and the pain are gone. His eyes clear and he pants slightly and recovers his posture. He braces his hands on his knees, breathes deeply and then continues his trek.

Without warning, something steps out of the darkness from between the houses, and blocks his way. It's as tall as Sam and the upper body sways back and forth, like a cobra ready to strike. It resembles a man, but its arms are bound tightly in a filthy straitjacket. Blindfolded with teeth bared, it moves in his directions. Sam takes a step backwards.

And then it spits.

The viscous black fluid sprays his chest, and it burns like hell. He pulls free the gun from the back of his jeans and shoots directly into the centre of the creature. It takes five rounds to drop it and as it collapses, Sam quickly rips his ruined t-shirt off, smoking holes appearing across its centre. He rubs his chest but thankfully the thick material of the cloth stopped the acidic bile from reaching his skin.

It takes him almost twenty minutes to reach the entrance to the park, but thankfully the roads are deserted and there are no more nightmarish encounters, he runs with a gun in each hand just in case. The road leading in is closed by a padlocked chain slung between two posts. He climbs over it, wincing as the stitches tug in his thigh. It's then he realises this is a lakeside park. How he missed that from the map he doesn't know. It's a moot point anyway, land or water, he still has to get across to the hotel on the other side.

Next to a locked up wooden hut are some rowing boats tied up, bobbing gently in the water. He tosses the guns and the torch into the bottom of one of the boats and unties it from its mooring. Struggling slightly, he steps into it and settles himself down and grabs the oars. Its going to be a challenge trying to row in a straight line with a broken arm, but right now he figures just about anything is possible.

He pulls the oars from the rowlocks and sets out across the vastness of the lake. He rows slowly but steadily, the only noise being the water lapping at the side of the boat. The world is dark around him and he can see the streetlights glinting back at the shoreline. All about him a strange mist is beginning to settle over the surface of the water. He shivers, he is without a shirt again and this time he is cold. He is cold, and in pain, and confused as hell. As far as he knows he's chasing a dead man in a town that can't possibly exist.

After a time he reaches the short jetty and climbs out of the boat, glad to be back on dry land, but not glad to be here. The mist has travelled inland with him, swirling around his feet and making goosebumps appear on his bare arms. The doors to the hotel are unlocked and although the lights are on, the place is deserted. He makes his way over to the reception desk and looks at the board of keys behind it. The keys for 213 are hanging there. He takes them and heads for the stairs.

As he is climbing the second flight a lightening bolt of pain rips through his mind again.

…_dirt…_

…_dust and dirt…_

He staggers and slumps against the wall, trying to keep on his feet. He stumbles up the few remaining steps and blindly rounds a corner, running headlong into a tall solid figure. His feet skid out from under him and he crashes to the ground, skinning his elbows on the rough worn carpet as he tries to brace himself against the fall.

The thing he has made contact with is terrifying. And he knows terrifying. Seven foot tall and naked, two long legs lead up to a fleshy torso, but where the upper body should be, are two more legs flailing about in every direction, as if they have no concept of the attributes of normal human joints. The mottled skin over its surface is slick and shiny, and as his right hand makes contact with one of its limbs Sam recoils from the repulsive touch of the cold slimy flesh.

The upper legs suddenly start to hit out at him, pounding his face and chest and Sam holds up one of his arms to try and shield himself from the blows that are raining down. He uses his other arm to prop himself up and try get back on his feet again. This thing, this deformed mannequin, is much stronger than him and it continually forces him back to the floor.

He kicks out at it, hard and succeeds in knocking its leg out from underneath it. It crashes to the floor, narrowly missing him. Sam is back on his feet within seconds and running headlong down the corridor as it begins to right itself. He glances at the numbers on the doors as he runs, 210, 211, 212 and finally he is in front of 213.

He fumbles the keys in the lock, looking back over his shoulder at the creature that is heading, once again, in his direction, the upper limbs waving about like some kind of fleshy antennae. The key turns in the lock and the door opens; he falls through it and shuts it quickly, locking it from the inside.

Inside the room, the lights are off, and he blinks slowly as his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. "Dean?" he calls "Are you here?"

His heart leaps as his brother answers "Sammy, I'm over here."

He follows the sound of the voice and moves deeper into the room. The worn shabby furniture hides in the half light and Sam can make out a doorway on the other side of the room. The door opens slightly and a shaft of bright light spills out across the floor. As he crosses toward it, little clouds of dust from the carpet puff out around his feet. The things that should command his attention, no longer do so. He takes in nothing of his surroundings and continues on auto-pilot towards his intended reunion.

He pushes open the door. His brother is facing him, bathed in light, a beatific look on his face; a face that is intact and whole and smiles in welcome and recognition. Sam moves forwards and opens his arms in greeting.

_scrawny cows and scrawny chickens scratching in the blood-soaked dirt_

Deans holds up a hand and presses it against his brother's bare chest. The freezing fingers burn icy cold into his flesh.

_Dean cradled in his broken arm, his handsome face ripped apart by a shotgun blast_

The fingers push through his flesh and surround his heart. He feels no pain as Dean takes his heart in his hand and the blood in his veins begins to turn slowly to ice.

_he feels nothing as teeth close over his limbs and hands tighten around his neck_

…_don't fear the reaper…_


End file.
